


Healing Hands (and other talented body parts)

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Massage Therapy AU, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24313132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: AU in which Sherlock is a massage therapist and John is a client recently returned from Afghanistan with a shoulder injury that won't go away. Sherlock demonstrates some... unconventional methods, to John's complete approval.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 390





	Healing Hands (and other talented body parts)

**Author's Note:**

> Seems like everyone's a bit touch-starved at the moment, so here's my contribution to helping scratch that itch :-)

The massage therapist’s office was unlike any medical place of business John had ever seen. Most doctors’ offices were dull, generic, and full of mass-produced beige furniture designed to withstand decades of abuse by patients without showing wear. This office had a blackout shade over the sole window and the walls were lined with an assortment of anatomical oddities. Nothing too grotesque, but the laptop on the tiny desk in the corner had what looked like a real human skull on it.

“Welcome,” a deep baritone voice said. John turned around and blinked, because the man at the door had nothing except his profession in common with the petite blonde woman John had been subjected to thus far. Army pensions didn’t cover much, but the official recommended therapist had done diddly squat in helping John to regain motion in his shoulder after he was sent home from Afghanistan. This bloke looked like he’d have no problem pummeling John’s tense muscles into submission.

“I’m, errr. I’m John.” He offered a handshake, which the man frowned at but accepted.

“Sherlock. Lovely to meet you. Bullet wound, is it? Left shoulder?”

John nodded. “Been three months now and the doctors say there’s no reason my muscles haven’t recovered better. I _have_ been doing my exercises, as best I can, but--”

“Yes. Excellent. Shirt off,” Sherlock commanded crisply. “In fact, strip down to your pants and lie on the table. We’ll see about fixing that psychosomatic limp, too. I’ll step out for a minute so you won’t feel uncomfortable disrobing in front of me.”

He was gone before John could ask how the hell the man knew about the limp - John had been standing still when Sherlock walked in and there definitely wasn’t mention of it in any file because his latest doctor had flat-out told him he was imagining it and refused to note it down. One more frustrating thing about Her Majesty’s medical staff. John mechanically undressed and lay on the table with the white sheet pulled up to his chest.

“Excellent,” Sherlock declared upon his return. “I run my appointments by task, not time, so be prepared to stay until I tell you you’re done and not before. Flip over, please. I assume you have no objection to music?”

John rolled to his stomach and let his forehead sink into the special padded facerest. The quiet strains of a lone violin filled the room. John focused on breathing deeply, in and out. This massage therapist was brusque, but the oil he’d just put on his hands smelled like cinnamon and autumn. It was pleasant. _Relax._

About five seconds after Sherlock had folded the sheet down to John’s waist and started in on his lower back, John knew he was in trouble. The man’s fingers were like ten individual miracles come down from heaven to relieve tension he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying. He couldn’t muffle a near-orgasmic moan, then immediately cringed at how wanton it sounded.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Sherlock said quietly. “I can already tell you haven’t been seen to properly before. Your previous massage therapist focused exclusively on your shoulder?”

“Yes.”

“She was an idiot. I would say you should fire her, but luckily you already did. It’s astounding how many so-called medical professionals don’t have the vaguest understanding of human anatomy beyond what was covered in whatever excuse passed for their training.”

“Hey. I _am_ a doctor,” John retorted before the man could dig himself in deeper. And then winced. “Or at least I was.”

“You will be again once we get your tremor and your limp sorted. Hold your breath for me. In… and out. In… and out. Again.” Sherlock braced a palm against the nape of John’s neck on each _in_ and swept his other hand in a firm motion from scapula to sacrum on the _out_. Each pass made John feel two centimetres taller. It also brought a twitch of interest to an area he was happy his massage therapist couldn’t currently see.

There were some disadvantages to being bisexual, and never being able to predict when surprise hard-ons might appear was one of them.

“The trapezius runs all the way down to your mid-back and anchors to the T12 vertebra,” Sherlock murmured. “Focusing pressure entirely on your shoulder won’t do a damn thing because it’s ignoring half the muscle. Even warming up the entire trapezius--” he suited the action to the comment, rolling his knuckles in glorious undulations across John’s skin “--isn’t enough because the scar tissue is three-dimensional and the trapezius is relatively flat. We need to reduce tension on your entire spine. Being back in London is stressful for you, yes?”

John hummed something that hopefully sounded like agreement. _Stressful_ was putting it mildly. Not London itself as much as being broke and trying to make a go of it anyway. Moving out to some godforsaken village and becoming a country doctor would doubtlessly be cheaper, but it would be a slow death sentence for his sense of self. _My life is boring enough already…_

“Oh, spare me the wallowing,” Sherlock grumbled. “I did say I could fix you. Right, flip over. Legs next.”

The man’s tone roused John enough to allow him to re-settle on his back, the sheet pulled back up to his shoulders. Sherlock flipped the bottom right corner dramatically upward and folded it deftly over John’s left thigh, exposing his right leg.

“Close your eyes,” he commanded in that hypnotically deep voice. “Listen to the music and concentrate on what you can feel.”

John did his best to comply, although it was hard. _He_ was hard. Sherlock’s hands didn’t stray above mid-thigh, but that didn’t seem to matter to John’s cock. John let out a long, deliberate breath and willed his erection to calm the fuck down.

Damn, Sherlock’s fingers felt good. On some level beyond the mixed-up signals his prick was interpreting as sexual. _When was the last time I’ve been touched by someone, outside of a medical setting?_ John found himself having to actually put some thought into the answer. Harry had hugged him when he first got back, but that might have been it since prior to when his unit walked into that ambush. There’d always been contact with patients, back when he was still useful to the RAMC, but that was only incidental. Despite being in a war zone, he and his fellow doctors had treated a lot more colds, fevers, and STDs than they did bullet wounds. Seeing how many soldiers mysteriously came down with the clap after getting time off base had done wonders for keeping John’s libido in check while deployed.

Sherlock switched to his other leg, and John fell into a contented half-doze. He was virtually pain-free. _That_ hadn’t been the case for even longer than the touch starvation. Army work - even medical work - was an exercise in pushing through discomfort. Lack of sleep, fatigue, pulled muscles, sand in places sand shouldn’t ever go, it all roll together into something to be coped with. Usually involving sheer willpower and more alcohol than was probably wise.

John cracked an eye open and looked over his massage therapist again. Sherlock was thin but deceptively strong. His white t-shirt fit him obscenely well. His hair was the kind of perfection that probably meant the man spent hours to make it look like he spent no time at all, and it suited him. He was currently focused entirely on John’s left calf muscle, rolling it with a brilliant up-and-down motion which nearly had John moaning with pleasure. _So fucking good._ He finished it off with a little flourish and laid John’s leg back down on the cushioned table.

“How are the nerves around the bullet wound?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

John had to blink a moment before he regained his powers of speech. “Mostly numb over my pectoral,” he admitted. “It’s the exit wound that’s been giving me the most trouble.”

“Show me.”

John slowly fumbled with the sheet until he had it tugged down to his navel. The extra fabric conveniently helped cover his persistent hard-on. “The shot barely nicked the underside of my clavicle, luckily didn’t take out my lung, but blew the hell out of my scapula on the way out. Took two surgeries to reconstruct it.”

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. “The way you’re carrying tension in your shoulders isn’t helping any,” he finally declared. “Here, sit up.”

It took a moment to regain his balance after his legs and back had been blissed into submission, but John managed to sit with the sheet piled in his lap. Sherlock prowled around him twice, muttering to himself. Once he reached out to press down gently on both of John’s shoulders, and a second time to graze the sizes of John’s ribcage and correct his sitting posture.

“Off the record,” he murmured, “you have two choices now. One is deep tissue massage through your pectoral to reach the subscapularis and hopefully get it to stop pulling unevenly against the clavicle. It’s not particularly pleasant and will likely take several sessions, leaving you feeling off-balance and asymmetrically sore each time.”

“And the other?”

Sherlock met his eyes. “The other is rather… unconventional, but much more enjoyable. Your primary source of tension is stress, so if you prefer we can end the official session right here and I can help you with that erection you’ve been sporting ever since I first touched you.” He flashed a cheeky grin. “Rest assured this is not _that_ kind of massage parlor, and it’s not something I normally offer, but in your case I find myself willing to make an exception.”

John gaped at him. “You… what?”

Sherlock leaned back against the wall behind him and crossed his arms, smirk still firmly plastered on his face. “You, John Watson, are the most interesting client I’ve had in ages. I’m offering to suck you off. Repeated over the course of several sessions, if you like. If you unwind a bit, I think you’ll find your shoulder giving you much less of a problem.”

“But… why?”

He got a cocked eyebrow in response, which was eloquent all on its own. “I could claim I’m just that dedicated to my work,” Sherlock drawled, “but also I find you sexually attractive and clearly you feel the same way about me. Nothing I can do about that while on the NHS’s time, but if the session is done we can… indulge… as much as we like.”

_Oh fucking Christ._ John swallowed. “I’d have to be an idiot to turn that offer down.”

“And I,” Sherlock said as he pushed off the wall and prowled closer, “am overjoyed that you are not an idiot. Kick off the sheet, John.”

John tossed the sheet to the floor. It left him in just his cotton Y-fronts, but the pants weren’t doing a damn thing to hide the state of his cock. Sherlock’s gaze grew even sharper.

“Delectable,” Sherlock declared, crispy snapping the consonants in the word. He leaned in, running the tip of his nose along John’s carotid. “I’m going to take them off you now. Yes?”

John nodded. Two seconds later, he was flat on his back and his pants were gone. Sherlock nudged John’s legs to the sides, so from the knee down they were hanging over the edges of the massage table, and lithely hopped up to kneel between them. John’s cock gave a little bob of excitement all by itself.

“Relax,” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward with a hungry look. “I’m going to do all the work.” And then he sucked the head of John’s prick into his mouth.

_Holy. Fucking. Hell._ “Relaxing” wasn’t happening anytime soon, John was sure of that. Sherlock hummed contentedly around his mouthful of cock, drawing a loud gasp. John reached down to spear his hand through the man’s perfectly coiffed curls, an anchor to keep him from floating away into the aether of sensation.

The end came embarrassingly quickly. John tightened his grip and managed a “Oh shit, gonna--” before the world went white and he was coming his brains out. Sherlock hummed again, a thoughtful noise this time, then withdrew with lips still shiny from his exertions. John wanted so badly to taste himself on that expressive mouth, but he made do with groping for Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it. It seemed a more reliable method of conveying thanks than relying on words would be.

Sherlock was noticeably hard in his trousers. John made a motion toward volunteering to do something about it, but Sherlock waved the offer away. “I plan to go home and take my time with it,” he explained with a little shrug. “Going to take a nice long shower and wank about how you felt on my tongue. About the little sounds you made, the texture of your skin. But thanks for the offer.”

“Fuck,” John breathed. “Even though I’ve just come, I might very well go back to my flat and do the same. Thinking about what you’re doing somewhere else in London at the exact same time.”

Sherlock glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Plan on… hmm, around five-thirty, then. Your shoulder feels better, I assume?”

John rotated his arm in a large circle. “Feels great.”

“Excellent. Make sure you go online to schedule another appointment for next week. I believe this treatment will only get more effective with additional applications.”

Like there was anything that could compel John to miss _that._ “Assuming you have room in your appointment book… I’ll see if I can secure the last slot in your day. If I were to do that, what are the chances you’d let me buy you dinner afterward?”

Sherlock blinked. And then smiled. “For you, John Watson, I might just be convinced.”


End file.
